The Boy Who Stole the Leopard's Spots

by Tamar Myers

  The American mamu shared the same white skin as the oppressors, the same pale eyes, and she said that she came from a place that was equally as incomprehensible as Belgique. Yet despite the fact that she screamed when she once saw a centipede in the room where she bathed, she did not permit anyone to kill it. Instead, she insisted that it be swept up and released outside so that there it might be free to bite someone else. But even if Mamu Ugly Eyes had the reasoning of a simple child, there could be no doubt that her intentions were good.

  In many respects she was like Mushinga, the simple woman who lived in a lean-to by herself at the village edge. She had been born with her cord wrapped around her neck—as had others before her and since—but in the case of Mushinga the breath of life had been slow to fill her lungs. Hers was the mind of a child in an adult’s body, and it was understood and accepted by all that no man should mount her for that very reason, just as no man would take her for his wife. As she was without parents or brothers and came from a no-account clan, Mushinga relied on the kindness of others for her survival, and in this she was most fortunate. Never a day went by that a hunk of bidia ne matamba wrapped in banana leaves—sometimes with a taste of meat—wasn’t left on a stump in front of her hut. Occasionally the befuddled girl, who was now a woman bending with age, would discover a slightly used head wrap, or even a serviceable waist wrap, draped over the coffee bush at the edge of her clearing.

  Likewise, as the people of the workers’ village pulled together to care for the village idiot, so would Cripple do her best to care for the helpless white creature that fate had thrown into her path. But just as no village was capable of protecting its idiot from every danger—snakes and evil spirits to name just two—neither could Cripple guarantee that the bumbling young missionary would come to no harm. Fortunately, Cripple was now in possession of some knowledge that might be useful to the younger woman, she whose mind was used to thinking in untraditional ways.

  “Mamu Mesu Mabi!” Mistress Ugly Eyes! When Cripple spotted Amanda Brown, she called to her in a voice that was rounded and soft, like that of a dove. She did this knowing that the white woman would hear her own name, yet at the same time the soothing sound would fall soft, perhaps even unnoticed, upon the ears of others.

  The missionary turned. “Cripple! I thought you were angry with me!”

  “Step into the next alleyway, Mamu. Go but a short distance to where a Flemish mulatto sells scrawny chickens in cages. Pretend you are interested in buying one of these pathetic creatures.”

  After speaking those words, Cripple fell back into the dispersing crowd, until she had observed all those who had been milling around them disappear in various directions. Then she too set out for the mulatto’s shop and, being a no-nonsense sort of woman, arrived almost on the heels of young Amanda Brown.

  “Cripple,” Mamu Ugly Eyes said immediately, “I do not understand this at all. Why do we play games?”

  “Mamu, it is not a game that I play. To the contrary, it may be a matter of great importance, but as yet I do not know how. You see, Jonathan Pimple has—aiyee! Behold, is this not the sickest chicken to ever stand upon one leg? I tell you, not even a starving jackal with eight pups would come near this creature.”

  “Blackie,” growled the Flemish mulatto angrily. He had wandered too close and had heard his birds being disparaged. Now he was retaliating.

  “Katuka,” Mamu Ugly Eyes said to him.

  It is a very rude way of saying go away; nonetheless, it delighted Cripple to hear it come from the mouth of her former employer. Mamu Ugly Eyes insisted on kindness too much, the result being that she reminded Cripple of gravy without salt.

  The Flemish mulatto reared back as if he had been struck by an open hand. “Protestant,” he hissed.

  “Eyo,” Mamu Ugly Eyes said. “I feel no shame in being Protestant. Now go and leave us be, so that we might examine these fortunate birds in peace.”

  The Flemish mulatto cocked his head. “Mamu, how is it that you think my chickens are fortunate, whereas your slave believes that they are unfit even to be jackal meat?”

  “I am no one’s slave,” Cripple growled.

  “They are fortunate chickens,” the white mamu said quickly, “because they are safe from all predators. Not only will the jackals ignore these chickens, but so will the hawks.” She pointed to the sky, where at any hour of the day one could see these birds circling directly overhead, because there was always some small creature below that lay dead or dying. “Behold,” she said. Tangila. “Above your chicken pen there is only the sky.”

  Cripple slapped her thighs with laughter as the Flemish mulatto slunk away muttering. Then abruptly Cripple stopped her merriment and pulled Mamu Ugly Eyes into the blazing sun of the open alley.

  Cripple! Biwaswa, umusha bianza biebe!” Please remove your hands.

  Lordy, if Grandma Brown could see how the two of them were acting this morning, she’d send them straight to that finishing school in Charleston that she’d always threatened to do. No, most likely Cripple would never even have been allowed inside the Brown family home, no matter how well she spoke English, not unless she happened to look like the Flemish mulatto.

  “Mamu, you must listen to me; these are words of great weight.”

  That’s when Amanda first felt a goose walk over her grave. “E, I will hear your words.”

  “This Jesus, whom you hold in much esteem, do you truly believe that he died and was buried beneath the earth?”

  Amanda’s heart skipped. Perhaps it wasn’t a goose after all. Could it really be that Cripple had finally been moved by the Holy Spirit and was searching for the truth? If that were true, oh how exciting!

  “Yes, Cripple! Mena, mena. Except that he was not buried beneath the earth, but in a small”—she paused to search her memory in vain for the word cave—“room carved out of rock. On the morning of the third day, he came back to life and walked out of that room.”

  “So he was not dead for three full days?”

  “Cripple, what matters is that he died for our sins—”

  “Mamu, did someone push hot chilies up his nose to see if he was dead?”

  “No! But someone did something else equally as awful; a soldier cut him, here, on the side.”

  “Aiyee! Mamu, is it possible that a witch doctor gave your Jesus a potion to drink that made him appear as if he was dead, when indeed he was not?”

  Amanda had thought she’d heard it all from skeptics, but this question truly took the cake. Then again, it was a distinctly African question, and it certainly made sense within the local culture. Actually, it was exactly what one might expect to hear from the heathen wife of a down-on-his-luck witch doctor. So, as irked as Amanda was by the question, she decided to do her level best to not let it show.

  “No, there was absolutely no witch doctor involved. In fact, I do not think there were any witch doctors in that tribe of Bena Yuda.”

  “Surely, Mamu, you are mistaken; when I was a girl, I sat outside my brother’s classroom at the Catholic school and listened to many stories of mualu mua kukema.”

  Miracles; Amanda had never been satisfied with the Tshiluba translation. First of all, Tshiluba used an expression, not just one word, and that expression had more than one meaning. It could mean remarkable things, extraordinary things, wonderful things, but even strange things. Given that linguistic restriction, the two-headed goat kid and the parting of the Red Sea were both miracles of equal standing.

  “Cripple,” Amanda said, trying very hard not to come across as irritated as she felt, “let us not argue about words. Instead, if it pleases you, tell me the kernel of your story.”

  “Yes, Mamu Ugly Eyes. This man, Jonathan Pimple, it is true that he died and was buried, and it is true that he rose again from the dead, but it is also true that he did so with the help of a witch doctor.”

  Amanda felt the goose s
tep out over her grave for a second time. “What did you say?”

  Chapter 33

  The Belgian Congo, 1958

  Mamu, there is medicine that can be obtained only from a witch doctor, which, if taken under proper supervision, brings on the symptoms of death. It was—”

  “Symptoms?” The word in Tshiluba was new for Amanda.

  “It appears as death, yet it is not death.”

  “Ah—like zombies.”

  “Like God? Mamu, are you ill?”

  “No, Cripple. But when Africans were taken to my country as slaves, they brought with them knowledge of this medicine. These slaves were of the Bakongo tribe and their word for people who had taken the medicine and appeared to be dead was nzambi. But as you know, we whites have very poor hearing; we heard the word as zombie.

  “Mamu, next time only the kernel, please.”

  Amanda smiled. “Continue, please.”

  “This buanga can be made to last for up to three days—sometimes even four—but always the person who takes it must be in very good health, and the entire time of death he must breathe through a—a bamboo reed!”

  “So he is not really dead!”

  “E, Mamu, he is really dead.”

  “Nasha, Cripple, he cannot be dead and breathing at the same time.”

  “E.”

  “Nasha.”

  “Mamu, you are most frustrating. I am telling you; a man who has taken this buanga is truly dead, for he has no movement here.” She pressed her wrist with her fingertips. “Or here.” She did the same with the artery behind her ear.

  “Perhaps it is very slight and you just cannot feel it.”

  “Tch,” Cripple said, pursing her lips. “You offend me. There is more to tell, but clearly you do not wish to know.”

  “But I do!”

  “Very well.” Cripple cocked her head this way and that, wasting plenty of valuable time by posturing, before getting down to business. “It was Their Death who sold the buanga to Jonathan Pimple. Because it was his buanga, Their Death made sure that just the right amount was taken, and that the grave was at the proper depth. It was Their Death’s responsibility.”

  Because Amanda cared so deeply for Cripple, she found herself feeling furious at that second-rate witch doctor. What if Jonathan Pimple had died during this stupid exercise? Then what? And what were those two men really hoping to accomplish? Surely Their Death didn’t buy into the legend of a false prophet that he had helped create—wait just one cotton-picking minute! Maybe he did! The human mind was capable of tremendous feats of self-deception, particularly during times of extreme stress. Amanda had learned something in Psych 101 her freshman year at Winthrop College for Women.

  However, just maturing a bit into adulthood had taught her that yelling at someone like Cripple was not going to achieve anything except to shut down the lines of communication. While frustration may be a difficult thing to swallow, at least it seldom leads to weight gain.

  “Please tell me,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “did Jonathan Pimple say why it was that he wanted to die and then to rise again on the third day?”

  “Nasha.”

  “Tch,” Amanda said, and it felt good to do so. “Do you know why it is that he wanted to do these things?”

  “Aiyee, Mamu Ugly Eyes, it does not become you to make such a rude noise!”

  “Cripple, answer my question—please.”

  “Mamu, clearly the man seeks to have a great following.”

  “I can see that, for I have brains in my head rather than a coconut, do I not?”

  The witch doctor’s wife smiled. “Mamu, there are many kinds of coconuts. Nevertheless, it is possible that I overheard Jonathan Pimple express the wish to avenge the death of his brother, Chigger Mite.”

  “Brother?” Amanda asked. “In what way were they brothers?” There is no specific word in Tshiluba for brother. Instead one uses a phrase that translates as “a male child of ours.” In a polygamous society—especially in a society that is simultaneously polygamous and polyandrous such as that of the Bashilele—there exist many possible sibling combinations.

  “They were brothers of the same mother and the same father. Their father was a chief of the Bapende tribe.”

  “Yet they came to you for help in settling a dispute?”

  “Tch, Mamu, would you rather that they settled it using machetes?”

  “Nasha! You see, that is why you are a wise woman, and I but one coconut among many! Cripple, how does being a man who has risen from the dead help Jonathan Pimple avenge his brother’s death?”

  Cripple clutched Amanda’s arm tightly, and, while limping more than Amanda could remember, pulled her along until they were quite alone inside a small grove of guava trees on the western edge of the Belle Vue workers’ village. Curiously, no one had followed them; to the contrary, the few people who may have noticed them approach the grove seemed to suddenly busy themselves, even if it just meant sweeping an already clean family compound. Amanda liked to think that she wasn’t born yesterday (although many were the times her mother would beg to disagree). At any rate, there was a decidedly tawdry feel about the clearing that she found hard to put her finger on. And as for the guavas, they hung ripe on the tree, or rotting on the ground.

  “What is this place?” she asked Cripple.

  “Tch.”

  “You know that eventually I will get an answer.”

  “Do you treat your slaves in America so badly?”

  “You are not my slave!”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Cripple, this is obviously a very important matter—otherwise you would not have brought me here. You must trust me.”

  The older woman rolled her eyes. “This place is where the bena masandi perform like wives for men who are not their husbands.”

  Amanda gasped softly. The first word that came to mind was ick! She knew about the birds and the bees—what went where—well, sort of. She had watched a bull and cow mate on her grandfather’s farm down in Chester County, South Carolina. But heavy petting in the backseat at a drive-in movie—that was the scope of her actual experience! To be standing where women of ill repute actually did it was the ickiest thing she could think of. This was something she would definitely not write home about to her parents.

  “Mamu, you must listen to me; I do not want to stay in this place all day.”

  How foolish she must have looked. “Nor do I; therefore, I am listening!”

  When Cripple spoke again, it was in a whisper. “There was one other great prophet besides Kibangu who was said to have died and then risen again, nasha? Your Jesus Christ.” She did not bother to pause for confirmation. “The claim that Jesus Christ was the first to do so is very important for both Roman Catholic and Protestant—”

  “No, Cripple, Jesus Christ was the only one to do so.”

  “Perhaps. But you see, a claim such as this is sure to make Jesus Christ’s followers very angry, is it not?”

  “Eyo. Christians are to live in peace, but what this Jonathan Pimple is doing is very offensive.”

  “And it is more offensive to some Christians than to others.”

  “I guess so, but—”

  “Mamu Ugly Eyes, do you not think that the priests at Saint Mary’s Catholic Church might be the most offended?”

  “Kah! Why is that?”

  “Because, Mamu, they are the most Christian.”

  “Bulelela [most certainly] they are not!”

  “But, Mamu, I respectfully ask that you consider the facts: they have a much larger building than the Protestant pastor who must worship his Jesus Christ at the edge of the village. Besides, they are white, and he is but a black man, and a Muchoke.” She made a face whereby her upper lip practically touched her nose. “In addition, the Roman Catholic priest honors his Jesus Christ by displayi
ng statues of both him and his baba—although the statue of Jesus Christ being tortured is not so nice. However, the priest wears a most attractive white dress on Sunday, burns secret herbs, and says magic incantations. The Protestant does none of this, which is why that church has so few members.”

  Amanda literally counted to ten before speaking. She did it silently, and she did it in Tshiluba since all the words for those numbers in that language have more than one syllable. Then she smiled before speaking.

  “Cripple, the things that you mentioned do not make one a better Christian. But are you suggesting that you think that Jonathan Pimple is trying to get the Roman Catholic priest angry at him because—wait! Do you really think that Father Reutner killed Chigger Mite? We may not worship the same way, but Father Reutner is still a man of God!”

  The older woman regarded Amanda beneath lowered eyelids. “Tch, and still it is that you wonder why I remain a heathen? Do you not recall reading about the man named Judas Iscariot, who betrayed your Jesus for thirty franc pieces the night before he died? Was he not an even closer follower than this priest? Truly, truly, he was, Mamu, for this Judas knew your Jesus personally. Therefore, it is possible that anyone can be capable of murder—even a Roman Catholic priest.”

  Amanda felt like she’d just had the stuffing knocked out of her, and by a heathen yet! Yes, of course anyone was capable of anything if you put it the right (or was it wrong?) way. Who would guess that sweet, charmin’ little ol’ Amanda Brown from Rock Hill, South Carolina, had once been a drunk driver and should be banned from the roads?